


Stand by me

by LooIsHere



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Fluff, Internal Conflict, Josephine de Beauharnais - Freeform, M/M, Smut, War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-15
Updated: 2018-08-16
Packaged: 2019-06-10 20:38:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15299565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LooIsHere/pseuds/LooIsHere
Summary: The thrill of war had always been what Napoleon sought in being far from home. Yet he could never get enough of the feeling of coming home.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What a better day to post it but the 14th of July ?

Napoleon can't sleep. He can feel his fingers hammering against his thigh, but it is as if he isn't the one moving them. It is, he must admit, almost annoying. He sits up in his uncomfortable tent, his back aches. He can see a fire still burning outside: his men standing guard.

"General Bonaparte." The soldiers salute him.

He nods respectfully and sits by the fire. "What time is it ?"

"Five twenty, General."

Napoleon nods again. He only slept two hours. They had marched to be near Rivoli early in the morning and they had arrived at two. He had been informed that the troops facing him planned on attacking at ten. It gave him plenty of time to think. He almost snorts. Think. As if it meant anything else for him than brood over the same things. He pinches the bridge of his nose and tries to focus on the day to come. From where they are, he can see five bivouacs, announcing 40 000 men, maybe more. He grits his teeth at the idea of facing that army with his 22 000 soldiers.

He stands up and goes back in his tent to take the pile of letters sitting on the ground next to his makeshift bed. Back outside, he reads and reads again the reports sent to him by the other divisions of his Army of Italy. By now Joubert should be close to attacking, if he was not already. Seeing the almost illegible scribbles, he thinks about the other letters in his tent. The ones he's afraid to open again. Josephine's. He wonders whose bed she's in tonight. He misses her. He hopes she will take him back in when he comes home. Victorious.

"General Bonaparte."

He turns promptly, taken out of his thoughts by one of his men.

"A letter for you."

He rises and takes it, thanking him. His eyes scan the lines one by one quickly, left-right, left-right.

"Joubert has started." He says, now fully alert. "Wake everyone up, quick !" He strides to his tent. "We must be ready before dawn !"

He will come back to Paris and to Josephine. Victorious.

 

* * *

 

  
The thrill of war had always been what Napoleon sought in being far from home. He wanted adrenaline to flow in him, he wanted to fight and to win for his country, for its people. Alone at his desk, he remembers the battle of Rivoli. The way his blade shook so hard in his hands after they won that he had to sheath it in order not to let it fall. He looks at his hands. He never trembles during a fight, he's steady and precise. He doesn't have the time to hesitate or calculate, he has to act fast. His hands have never failed him. He observes them, contemplative. The palms (especially the right one), roughened by long years of training. The fingers, irreversibly scarred by many battles. The nails, short, stained by this day's hours of writing. He'll clean them when he's finished. Hortense hates when he touches her with his fingers covered in ink. He smiles to himself. These children are everything to him. He never has enough time with...

A knock interrupts him and he frowns. "Come in."

"A letter for you."

"Thank you."

He doesn't lose any time to open it and winces to its content. What could Barras want that needs his physical presence ?

 

* * *

 

 

  
Napoleon sits heavily behind his desk with a weary sigh. Seizing the power of the Directory had been hard. He is exhausted, he wants to sleep for days and days. If his lucky star is still shining upon him, then maybe Barras will forget him for a few days. Yet he has this prickly feeling at the nape of his neck, this muscle stiffness that he knows too well. It foreshadows what he dreads the most these times: insomnia. He loathed insomnia, for he didn't sleep with his wife in order not to wake her up. He rubs his face slowly. Why couldn't he have peace for a while ? He chuckles to himself. The hero of Toulon and, (not so) modestly hero of Italia, craving after peace. He's a military man, for God's sake, not a frightened child.

Scribbling a note on a small piece of paper, Napoleon stands and exits his office. A guard is standing next to the door and he gives him the folded message.

"Hand this to my wife, please."

"I will, General."

He wants to laugh. Will everybody call him  _General_  until his death ? Is this what he is in everybody's mind, now ? A general ?  _Only_  a general ? He shakes his head and drags himself to the bedroom across the corridor. There, nobody (if the guard standing at the door was  _nobody_ ) could hear him walk in circles all night. He thought, most of the times, but when his mind was empty yet still restless, he counted his steps or listened to the noises coming from the street.   
Once behind that door, he removes his shoes and collapses on the bed. Maybe if he falls asleep immediately,  _maybe_  he won't toss and turn all night. A candle is lit on the desk in a corner of the room. He doesn't blow it out. It could be useful if he feels like reading. The prickly sensation is still eating up his sanity and he wonders if one day he'll go insane because of it. He clenches his teeth and tries to make himself comfortable. With a long inspiration, he closes his eyes and waits. Hopes.

 

* * *

 

  
A soft noise is coming from outside the window. Slow, muffled steps on the tiles.  _Click_.  _Click_.

Napoleon opens his eyes and grabs his pistol on the bedside table. The candle must have burnt away, he thinks, as the room is dark. Only a dim light is coming from the street lamp from the closed window. The opened window lets in a blue moonbeam. The steps are significantly closer. The person is going to jump in his room, he knows it. Ever so slowly, trying to make as little noise as possible, Napoleon sits up, his gun in hand. He aims it at the window, ready to shoot whatever mercenary coming his way. The footsteps halt, and in no time, the stranger lands on the wooden floor of the room with a soft thud. The hammer clicks loudly in the silent room as Napoleon prepares to fire. 

"I knew you wouldn't be asleep." Comes a familiar voice. The man uncurls and stands next to the window, facing him. His hood hides most of his face from the crude moonlight, but Napoleon had recognised him just by the sound of his voice.

  
"Dorian."

  
The Assassin's nimble steps bring him closer to the bed, but Napoleon interrupts him before he can say anything. 

"What is it you want ?"

  
A low chuckle echoes in the room and Arno stops. "I am not here to ask for any favour. That would put me in a very uncomfortable position of owing you something in return, and at the present moment, I highly doubt I want to be part in your... machination."

  
This time, it is Napoleon who lets out a small laugh. " _Machination_. Curious choice of word, for someone who runs around the city to... How would you say it ? Make people mysteriously disappear ? Is that how you call your  _activity_  ?"

  
Arno doesn't say a word. Napoleon can't see his face, but he knows that behind the indifference mask he probably wears, he hates when people despise his cause. They stay silent for a while.

  
"Why weren't you sleeping ?" Arno slips in the shadows.

  
"I didn't know my health was what kept you up at night, Dorian."

  
No answer. Napoleon tries to discern his figure, but his navy coat makes him melt into the dark room. He sits at the edge of the bed, closes his eyes and brushes his hair back. When he opens his eyes again, he finds Arno sitting on one of the armchairs facing the fireplace. He had lit a candle and had put it on the desk, next to the other one.

  
"To what do I owe the pleasure ?" Napoleon sits in the other armchair.

  
Arno doesn't speak. He can hear the soft rustle of his fingers rubbing the red velvet of the armrest. 

  
"It has been quite some time." He says quietly.

  
Napoleon hums in return. Four years, if his memory is right. He doesn't remember telling him where he lived.

  
"Josephine must be sad to sleep alone." He says. "By the way, congratulations." His tone is flat, almost cold. "I didn't know you were such a sentimental man."

  
He knows Arno has something else to say, so he waits.

  
"Most fortunately, rumours are not something our country lacks of. I wouldn't have been able to find you again, if not for those whispering damsels."

  
"Has everything else failed you, for you to rely on gossip ?"

  
Arno snorts. "Your wife is keen on spinning your rumour mill. Maybe you should be listening to gossips more often."

  
"What I am supposed to learn from them ? That she is an adulteress ? I thought someone as well-informed as you had more common sense." Napoleon's words are cutting. 

The room falls silent again.

  
"If you came here to humiliate me, I'm sorry to tell you that I am not susceptible to abasement."

  
"I came hoping to find you well."

  
"Well, I am doing good, if that can put your mind at ease."

  
"How long have you been insomniac ?"

  
Napoleon pinches the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Too long."

  
"What's on your mind ?"

  
"War." Napoleon says with no hesitation. Arno shifts slightly on the armchair.

  
"Which war ?"

  
Napoleon swallows and his fingers start hammering on the armrest against his will.

 

"Egypt."

 

Arno's head turns to him. "What ?" He whispers, taken aback.

 

Napoleon rubs his forehead, a migraine is starting to drill into his skull. He winces.

  
"Nothing is settled yet."

  
He closes his mouth and lets his head fall back. If only he could sleep. He is glad Arno isn't asking further questions. He himself isn't sure of anything. He closes his eyes and listens to the silence. For once, the light breeze coming in the window isn't carrying any sound. He sighs.

 

* * *

 

 

  
Napoleon jumps, startled. He squints his eyes to the sun. Did he.. fall asleep ? He frowns and scans his surroundings. He is still sitting in the velvet seat next to the fireplace. Arno is probably long gone. He turns. His pistol is lying on the bed where he left it. He sighs and stands up. He has too much to do and too little time.  
He puts his shoes on and walks to his office. 

"Napoleon."

He turns on his heels, exasperated and wondering who has the nerve to call him like that when he didn't even have some re-

"Josephine," he breathes out, his anger vanishing. She smiles at him softly. He smiles back. "I hope you slept well."

"I missed you." 

Napoleon takes her hands and kisses them. "I'm sorry. I cannot let my restlessness disturb you." 

"You didn't even dine, Napoleon. You should rest, you're working too hard." Her voice is music in his ears.

"I know," he whispers, lost in her brown eyes. "But France needs me, it was in the wrong hands for too long." He kisses her lips and smiles kindly to her. "Please, take care of yourself and the children. Nothing matters as much as your happiness." 

With a last few words, he is gone. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

  
The Muiron is leaving Egypt with Napoleon, Berthollet and Monge on board. He is not proud. The only word powerful enough to qualify the Egypt campaign seems branded on his mind.  _Disaster_. He brushes the polished wood of the frigate's rail. What would have said Jean-Baptiste Muiron ? Would he have given him constructive pieces of advice ? He sighs. He watches the dark waters of the Mediterranean Sea. The waves go up, then down, up again and down again - nauseating. The bitter taste of bile coats his tongue. He had thrown himself in the lion's den. Stupid. His short nails scratch the rail in an unnerved grasp . Too tight. What have he done ? 

 

* * *

 

"Josephine must be worried to death." Arno's slender form slides in, and of course he can't keep his poor judgement to himself. 

Napoleon clenches his fingers in front of his mouth. What he didn't need in addition to his raging headache was that goddamn Assassin hopping in through his window. "I am a busy man, Dorian, and she is a grown-up woman."

"Egypt did change you, it seems."

If only he had his pistol, Napoleon thinks bitterly, he could just press it to his guts like he did when they first met and shoot through him to make him shut his mouth once for all.

"There is no need to plot against me." 

"What is it you want, Dorian ? Doesn't an Assassin have other things to do than jump in the chambers of a general every other year with the will to irritate him ?" He mutters through clenched teeth, his nails painfully sinking in his skin.

Arno silently sits across him, watching the fire. "I didn't think I would find you in such a pleasant mood, Bonaparte." A low chuckle escapes him. "Desertion has-"

"It was  _not_  desertion," Napoleon says slowly, his blue eyes anchoring in Arno's. 

"How is your leg ?" Arno changes subject, seemingly unaffected by Napoleon's tone.

"Which one ?" He snorts. He wonders why his health always interests him.

"I believe your left thigh has long healed. How is the other one ? I heard a horse hit you in July. Or was it August ?" 

Napoleon's hand mechanically comes to rub the place where a huge contusion used to be a few months ago. 

"It is healed." He remembers the eleventh of July, how the horse kicked him with such a strength he thought he would lose his leg. "Thank you." 

His eyes focus back on Arno. Only then he notices he isn't wearing his hood. Does he finally feel safe enough in this guarded house to expose his face ? Napoleon laughs - what a farce, this hood, making him look grotesque. Arno turns to him, surprised. 

"What's funny ?"

Of course he is clueless of how ridiculous he looks. "You hood is." The upset frown on Arno's face is satisfying,  _so satisfying_. "I don't remember ever seeing you without it. It is an intriguing sight."

  
" _Intriguing_  ?" Arno repeats, incredulous, face still crumpled in irritation. 

"Who would have thought someone as reckless as you bore so little scars ?" A cunning smile spreads on his lips. "And although your eyes are dull and show no sign of any strategic mind, they do show a spark of intelligence." 

"So this is why your eyes are greyer than before: they reflect the colour of the waters you fled on." 

His smile fades only slightly, but he knows Arno has seen it. 

"Will you be leaving for another country soon ?"

"Why does it matter to you ?"

"I hate to hear from others that you are gone to God knows which country to fight yet another battle."

"This is what military men do. I don't think there is any need to be upset over it. What are you ? A starry-eyed girl ?" Napoleon trails off and puts his head in his hands. Won't the pounding ever stop ?

Arno watches him, silent, and leans forward. "Friends like to hear from each other, one would say." 

Is that concern in his voice ? Napoleon pushes his appreciation away and groans. "I need to rest. Stop coming at night." He rises and walks to the bed. Putting his pistol on the bedside table with a small clatter, he turns to Arno. "Oh and," he starts under his breath, "I believe you know where my office is."

 

* * *

 

 

  
  
Napoleon sits back with a sigh and closes his eyes. Now that the scratching of his writing has stopped, only the tapping of the rain against the glass of the window disturbs the silence. He puts the quill down and massages his temples before letting his head rest on the back of his chair. What more relaxing than the sound of pouring rain, he wonders. And that petrichor smell that makes him think about war, about drenched soil and gunpowder.

  
He frowns. Why does it smell like... He opens his eyes and immediately turns his head to the window.

  
He should have known. That awful cheeky smile. The wet sound of his boot on the floor makes Napoleon look down. He is about to say something but he is interrupted by the soaked blue coat falling on the ground. His eyes immediately go up to Arno's face. What does he think he is doing ?

"Oh sorry." He steps forward. "Do you mind if I..?" He asks, pointing at the puddle.

Napoleon holds in an annoyed sigh and only stares at him, at his shirt, at his waistcoat, at his scarf. Water is dripping down his face and hair and - how long was he under that downpour to be so wet ? 

"Please," he gestures toward the fire, "sit by the fireplace."

Arno walks to the sofa, each of his steps leaving a wet print behind him.

"Not on the sofa, however." 

Napoleon feels his gaze on him and he can't help a satisfied grin. 

"Fine." Arno sits on the floor next to the fire and leans his back on the stone before putting his elbows on his knees. He brushes his hair back and starts untying the knot of his red scarf. Napoleon observes him silently, putting the quill down once again. His deft fingers pull on the red silk and once he is done, he drops it on the floor. 

"May I ?" He asks, gesturing to his waistcoat. 

"Do as you wish." 

Arno nods and undoes the buttons one by one. He finally removes it - not without a certain difficulty, Napoleon notices, and almost throws it next to the scarf. Then he is unbuttoning his shirt and wait-

"No." 

Arno looks at him, eyebrows raised. 

"I would appreciate it if you did  _not_  undress in my office."

"What is it ? Have you never seen a man naked, General ?" 

Napoleon stands up and comes to sit in the sofa, across Arno. "I did, but I believe it does not mean I particularly want to see you naked."

Arno hums with a smirk and lets his hand rest on his knee. They sit silently for a moment. 

"May I ask what brings you here ?"

"I had something to do not far from here but.." He waves vaguely at the rain outside.

Napoleon nods. He is about to speak again when someone knocks on the door. He rises and exits the room. 

"You wife has.."

"Tell her I'm busy."

"But General.."

"Are my instructions unclear ?"

"No but.."

"Then carry out my orders."

Without waiting, he turns around and goes back in the office. Arno is looking at him under his lashes and are his lips slowly becoming purple ? Napoleon frowns. 

"Are you cold ?" He asks in his usual flat, calm tone.

"I doubt you care about anything else than  _yourself_ , but yes, I am. Too bad you don't want me to remove my wet clothes." He snorts, not even hiding his detachment. 

Napoleon closes his eyes. He doesn't know what keeps him from punching him in the face. "I do not remember inviting you, and I highly doubt any of my guards would be delighted to find a stray -not to mention half naked, in my office." 

He stands up and goes to the door. "Please close the window when you leave." He says, hand on the doorknob. "And  _do not take_  anything on your way out."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a bit late, sorry ! I hope you'll like this new chapter ! (even though I'm not too sure about what I'm getting into, but hey that's the fun of it)

Napoleon is sitting cross-legged, his hands tied in his back. The strain on his shoulders and back is becoming more and more painful. He certainly could have avoided that, he thinks. He raises his head to analyse his surroundings: he is in a damp, dark cave, but there is some light coming from a half-moon window. His hair is all over his face but he can still see the awful wine stain on his pants that brought him so much shame. God will he ever have the strength to leave his house again after such an embarrassing,  _ disgraceful _ occurrence ? 

He chuckles. He doesn't even know if he will be able to leave this rat hole. There is still a lot of noise coming from outside, so he guesses the riots are not over. Someone must have seen what happened. At least he hopes, because he himself can't remember. Someone must have knocked him down. He remembers leaving the Galerie d'Apollon, he remembers one of the deputies grabbing his collar and shaking him, he remembers a fistfight, a low blow to his side, and then nothing. Judging by the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue, he must have been hit in the face. He curses. He could have avoided this disaster.

* * *

 

 

Someone is shouting down the corridor, and Napoleon hopes this someone is on his side. His shoulders are numb and he is certain the smallest move will make the pain resurface. Quick footsteps come in his direction for God knows how long and he wants to tell that good-for-nothing that he'd better take him out of here, but he knows he is definitely not in a position of power. If he wants to be saved -oh how he hates that word- he should keep quiet and be nice to whoever is running to him. 

There is a gurgle and someone falls on the ground with a mat sound. What a shame if he was to die like a prisoner in this rotten hole. He'd rather die with his throat slit like the man he heard. He wants to laugh again; he is not even in a cell, no keys, no metal door. For what he knows he could be in the sewers under Paris and-

"Come, quick !" A voice whispers and he would give anything not to recognise it. Boots come in his field of vision and he curses.

"Of course it had to be you, Dorian." He groans.

"Shut up and come with me if you don't want to end up guillotined." He pulls on his arm to help him on his feet and Napoleon yelps in pain. Arno swiftly pushes him against the wall and slaps a hand on his mouth. "I told you to shut up," he murmurs through his teeth, "someone is coming." 

Napoleon's heavy breathing, only muted by the gloved hand on his mouth, answers to the equally heavy breathing of Arno. Their bodies are uncomfortably close, pressed together against the wall to make them disappear in the shadows. He moves his head to ask for something. 

"I'm sorry ?" Arno puts his hand on the wall next to his head.

"Could you please untie my hands ?" Napoleon whispers, even more aware of the lack of distance between them now that the hand is gone. 

Arno nods and makes him turn around before severing the tightly knotted rope. "Don't move." He silently walks to the edge of the wall and waits, hidden by it. When the guard arrives, the Assassin pulls him and plunges his blade into his throat. 

"Come, now." 

Napoleon follows him reluctantly through long corridors. He hates having to obey blindly. He wonders where he is brought.  Hopefully, not too far from home. Relief washes over him when they take stairs up and come out on a deserted street.

"What was all this ?" He asks, outraged.

"Let's get somewhere safe before you start scolding me." 

With a huff, Napoleon follows Arno. After a few minutes, they end up in front of a café-théâtre in which Arno takes them. 

"Now," he says with a sigh when they reach the second floor, "you can be unpleasant without fearing anything." 

"Where are we ?"

"My place, if I can call it that way." 

Napoleon walks behind him and almost cries in relief when he is offered a seat in what he believes is Arno's room.  He massages his wrists on which raw red marks appeared where the rope bit into the skin. If he is glad his back doesn't hurt too much, his shoulders are screaming every time he moves. How many time has he spent in that cave ?

"What happened ?" He asks point-blank.

"Before I saved you, you mean ?"

"Yes, this." He grits his teeth. 

"People started fighting when you stepped out. I tried to find you, but when I did someone was on you and by the time I arrived to your location, you were already gone. I saw you exchange a few punches."

"Thank you, I guess. However, was it absolutely necessary to hold me that long against the wall ?"

"Don't worry,” he chuckles, “your shoulders will get better."

Napoleon nods. He would have preferred killing himself rather than admitting that their proximity had embarrassed him. 

"How did you know where I was ?"

"I looked for you."

He snorts. "Am I  _ this _ important that you always are after me ?" 

"It saved your life, I believe." Arno smiles and throws his coat on the bed, soon followed by the scarf and waistcoat. "I'm sorry, General," He smirks as he unbuttons his shirt, "but I am home and I need to change clothes. If it bothers you, just turn your back to me or go on the terrace." 

Napoleon watches him remove the shirt and turns his head on the other side when he slides his pants down his thighs. After a few ruffles, he turns back to Arno and - _ oh no not yet _ . The Assassin is still shirtless and he has his back turned to him. The muscles roll easily under his skin as he slides another pair of trousers up his thighs. Suddenly, Napoleon looks down at his own upper thigh, secretly hoping for the wine stain to be gone. It is not. 

"You look embarrassed, Bonaparte."

He eyes shoot up and he moves his hand to hide it. He focuses hus gaze on Arno instead. His shoulders are broad, his arms look strong and his torso is muscled. He looks up to his face, ignoring the sudden rush of heat in his guts. Probably the shame digging its claws in him once more.

"Have you ever considered enlisting in the army ?" He asks lightly, changing the subject.

Arno snorts. "I am not a military man."

"It is not something we are born with."

"I am made for stealth." 

"Stealth has its place in my army."

"I believe you left it back in Cairo."

Napoleon sees the disappointed look on Arno's face when he doesn't react. What did he think ? 

"Then should I live all my life under the shadow of what happened in Egypt ? You, out of all people, should know how to move on, don't you think ?" 

Arno glares daggers at him. 

"I never needed the Brotherhood to survive." He snarls. Napoleon frowns.

" _ Elise _ was what I was referring to." 

The name makes Arno freeze. So he guessed right, the girl died. Arno takes a step towards him, a dangerous expression crumpling his face.

"Don't talk about her like that." His voice is low, threatening. "You have no idea what happened. You have no idea what you're talking about, Bonaparte." 

"You should put all this behind." Napoleon declares calmly. "It is no good to dwell on the past."

"She was the love of my life," he growls through gritted teeth, "she is  _ not _ the past, Bonaparte."

Napoleon stands up and gets closer to Arno, immediately regretting as he is pushed back slowly but surely. _What an idiot_ , he thinks. He must admit, the idea of being injured, alone with a man taller (and possibly stronger) than him isn't the most pleasant experience. His heel touches the wall as he steps back and he swallows nervously, his gaze shooting up to Arno's face. 

"You have  _ absolutely no right _ to say those things." He almost whispers, his body almost touching his. "I  _ saved _ you, yet you can't shut your damn mouth. Maybe I should have left you there to be tortured and decapitated."

If fear wasn't twisting his guts, Napoleon would laugh. But this time the Assassin is too close, he is trapped. So he holds up his gaze. To his surprise, he spots sorrow in his brown eyes, behind the anger. Did he love her like he himself loves Josephine ? Probably, he thinks. He also thinks that the brown of Arno's eyes is oddly close to Josephine's. A warm chocolate brown with the subtlest hazel specks. He closes his eyelids and tries to remember Élise. Has he ever seen her ? 

“No.” Arno mumbles. “You never had the chance to see her.” Napoleon frowns. He didn't mean to say it out loud.

“Did you love her more than your own life ?” He croaks, his throat dry.

“I still love her more than my own life. I would give anything for her to be alive.” His tone starts to sound sorrowful. Arno himself hears it. He doesn't seem to care. 

“Tell me more about her.” Napoleon tries to stay relaxed.

“Why ?”

“Consider it an exercise. Nobody can live with the burden of guilt on their shoulders. Not even a soldier, not even an  _ assassin _ . Give it a try.”

Arno doesn't move for a while, seemingly lost in his thoughts. 

“She was beautiful.” He starts. “Her face was a work of art. She had pink lips, a small, straight nose. The most beautiful smile I ever had the chance to see.  And her eyes.. They were dazzling. As blue as..” The faraway look in Arno’s eyes disappears suddenly and he starts darting quick glances to each of Napoleon’s. “As blue as yours.” He finally says, almost in a question. 

“I beg your pardon ?” 

“Your eyes." He frowns as if he had just woken up from a dream. "They look so similar to Elise’s. They turn grey when it rains and a darker blue when violent emotions take upon you, don't they ?”

Napoleon nods briefly. He doesn't know why, but Arno’s hand on his chest is feeling heavier than before. He doesn't like it. 

“She..” He continues, closing his eyes. “You know, she.." He sighs, seemingly tired. "I can't. It's just too hard. Let's not talk about her.” 

“It is quite funny that my eyes remind you of Elise." Napoleon says in a light voice. "Just a bit earlier I was thinking-” His words get stuck in his throat as Arno’s hand pushes on his chest again. His shoulders and back touch the wall behind him and  _ oh no _ he doesn't like it. The Assassin can probably feel his heart quickening under his palm. Napoleon swallows hard.

“I was thinking about..” He clears his throat to regain composure and tries to stay calm. “About the way your eyes are very similar to Josephine’s.” 

“Are they ?” Arno is merely centimeters away from him now and he can feel his breath on his face.

Napoleon doesn't know what to say. His body is screaming to him to fight and get away. He raises a hand to grab Arno’s wrist but the Assassin takes it and pins it to the wall. Napoleon groans in pain. Panic starts to seep in him. He is in danger.

“Stop worrying, General, you're in good hands.”

A nervous chuckle escapes him. He ever so slowly slides his free hand in his back to reach his pistol. He tries not to wince to the searing pain radiating through his shoulder and takes hold of the handle. In an attempt to distract Arno, he tries to free his trapped wrist, but as soon as he pushes him -quite painfully- the Assassin puts more strength in his arm and pins it back where it was. 

With a swift move, Napoleon moves the hammer back and presses the barrel hard on Arno’s stomach. 

“Let me go, Dorian.” 

Arno’s features darken as he takes a few steps back. 

“Just like in the Tuilleries Palace in 1792.” 

Napoleon doesn't react. Instead, he lowers his gun and moves toward the door. He stops to say something, but closes his mouth at the last moment. With a last look, he sheaths the pistol and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I tried to stay as close to history as I could.  
> Thank you for the comments !


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I was a bit busy this week/ week end.  
> I hope you'll enjoy it and see you next week !  
> UPDATE: Last chapter might be a bit late, I'm working on it but I'm really busy these days, sorry, I'll try to do my best !

Arno lets out a loud cry as he tries to crawl back. He is covered in dirt, dust is everywhere, he has a hard time breathing. He can't turn his eyes away from the man walking towards him with an axe. The powerful blow he received on the leg makes it hard for him to push himself away from the man. One of his opponent's blade had cut through the thick leather of his left glove, leaving a bloody trail on him. The gravel starts hurting his palms. 

_ Stupid, _  Napoleon thinks when he shoots in the knee of a revolutionary. What a stupid, reckless decision from that stupid, pig-headed man. He buries his sword in the revolutionary’s chest and tries to look around him through the thick veil of dust surrounding him. Everyone is down. With a heavy sigh, he crouches and takes Arno’s hand, wrapping his arm around him to help him hobble to a safer place. Once in a dark, deserted alley, he sits Arno on a stone bench and sighs once more. 

“You got yourself in quite a sticky situation this time.” 

Arno coughs. “He came from behind. Grabbed my collar and made me fall.” His chest is heaving. 

“You were lucky he did not sink his axe in your back or neck.” 

Arno nods silently. “I thought he would crush my ankle.” He looks at Napoleon, relieved. “Thank you for your help, though I could have won this fight alone.”

“ _Win_ ? You can barely stand on your leg, not to mention your damaged fingers and the kick you received that will, by the way, probably leave a rather big contusion on your ribs.” Napoleon locks his eyes with his. “In no circumstances you could have won this fight, Dorian.”

“You underestimate me.” Arno declares calmly. 

The General stares at him before standing. “Fine,” he mumbles, “then if you see no objection to it, I will return to my house. Please, be careful on your way home.” He looks at him for a bit longer and finally starts to walk away.

He is about to turn around the corner when he hears Arno call his name. He halts and waits.

“Please.” Comes a mutter. 

He turns around, his usual cold expression -he could have called it  _ disdainful _ \- on his face. “What is it ?”

“Could you escort me back to the café-théâtre ?” Arno lets his torn glove fall on the ground and raises his head to look at him. “Please.” 

Napoleon raises an eyebrow, not impressed by his supplication or by the blood covering his whole hand. “Was this dramatization absolutely necessary ?” He slowly takes the steps back to the bench and offers his hand to him. 

When he takes it, the General helps him to his feet and wraps his left arm around his waist, securing his hold on his right hand over his shoulder. Napoleon supports him as he limps through the streets of Paris to reach his room. He helps him sit on his bed and sighs.

“I must admit I am glad we did not encounter any more of those men.”

“Yeah,” Arno winces, struggling to unbutton his shirt with one hand.

“Let me,” Napoleon puts a knee on the floor and helps him, soon moving the fabric aside to examine the bruise already forming on Arno’s last two ribs. He hovers over it before gently pressing a finger on the outer edge of it. He sees the Assassin grimace from the corner of his eyes. 

“It will spread,” he declares softly, raising his head, “the spot might stay over sensitive for a few..” His words falter as Arno’s hand brushes his jaw in a deliberate move. The metallic smell of blood fills his nostrils. His eyes shoot up, locking in Arno’s in a questioning look.  _ What are you doing ?  _ it says.  _ Are you doing this on the sole purpose of annoying me or did they hit you too hard on the head ? _ The fingers slowly slide on his ear and the palm seems to fit perfectly against his cheek. He feels the sudden urge to close his eyes. So he fights against it. 

Somewhere in his head, an idea is worming its way into his consciousness. So he fights against it too. It has been a long time since anybody had had such gentle attentions for him. Even Josephine was starting to grow distant. He shakes his head slowly. What is he doing ? He takes Arno’s hand between his own and looks at the row of shallow cuts on his fingers. 

“I’ll fetch a cloth downstairs and warm water. We need to bandage this.” 

“Ask Charlotte Gouze for it. She won't ask any questions. You can't miss her.” 

Napoleon nods and walks downstairs, to the restaurant where a vaudeville is being played on the small stage. He looks around the room and immediately spots her: sitting alone, leaning on papers, a large hat on her head, he can't be mistaken. She raises her head when she sees him approach. 

“May I help you ?”

“Miss Gouze, would you be so kind as to tell me where to find a cloth and some warm water ?” 

“The blood on your face is Arno’s, isn't it?” 

Napoleon immediately wipes his cheek with his hand, hoping nobody noticed. 

“Don't worry, it was barely visible. The kitchen is this way, say I sent you.”

He thanks her and picks up the wet napkin the waitress gives him. Once back up, he finds Arno at his desk, leaning back, his shirt still open, the rest of his dirty clothes still on him. Napoleon represses a sigh and sits in front of him before taking hold of his hand and gently wiping away all the drying blood. He goes slower around the cuts and finally puts the cloth down on a corner of the desk. 

“Do you have anything for me to bandage your hand ?”

Arno shakes his head. “You don't have to do that, Bonaparte. I know you hate it.”

Napoleon hums. “Right. You need to rest.” He stands and nods to Arno, then leaves. 

On his way back home, he thinks back on Arno’s move. He doesn't understand. Why would he do  _ that _ ? To confuse him, certainly. He curses under his breath and walks faster. The bastard succeeded. 

Once home, he doesn't greet anyone and goes straight to his office. He knows someone will knock on the door soon enough to check up on him, so he waits. It interrupts him after his forty-eighth step.

“Come in.”

He doesn't listen to what the man says. He doesn't care.

“Where is Josephine ?”

“General..”

“Where is she ?”

“She has not come back yet.”

“Didn't you tell me yesterday that she would be back before midday ?” Napoleon can feel his blood starting to boil. Of course she’s somewhere else. He wants to be mad at her, but who is he kidding ? How long has it been since he last touched her ? He clenches his fists. 

“I did, sir. We expected her to be back this morning. Should we look for her ?”

“No.” He rubs his thumb against his forefinger nervously. “Thank you. Leave, now.”

His fingers start to hurt but he doesn't care. A searing hatred burns his guts. Not towards his wife, no, he loves her too dearly. Towards himself. He shouldn't have left for Italy. He shouldn't have left for Egypt. Of course she cheats on him. It is all his fault.

 

* * *

 

 

Napoleon’s hands are gripping the edge of the desk so hard his joints are white. Repugnance courses in his veins like molten lava. The pounding in his head is deafening. It is probably why he doesn't hear the clumsy landing Arno has made due to his leg that needs more time to stop hurting. 

Napoleon jumps to the touch on his shoulder and quickly steps back while facing whoever entered his room. He releases his breath when he sees the Assassin. 

“Not today, Dorian.” 

But when he looks in his eyes as he slowly walks to him, a part of him knows -even deep down where he tried to hide it. So he lets his eyelids fall shut and welcomes the warmth of Arno's lips on his. They have nothing to do with Josephine’s. The rough palms on his neck reminds him how lonely he feels. 

He raises his hands and gently pushes him away to plunge his gaze in his brown eyes. He is about to say something when Arno presses his mouth on his for the second time. Harder. It is probably better if he doesn't start thinking too much, he thinks. Napoleon lets his hands slide down to settle on his waist, where he clutches the fabric of Arno’s coat. He doesn't know what is happening. He doesn't care. So he kisses back harder, pushes his tongue against Arno’s lips and brings him closer. He realises the headache is gone, replaced by the fast beat of his heart. He makes the hood fall and slides a hand in Arno’s thick hair and pulls maybe too hard. The Assassin groans as his head tilts back.

“You kiss like you fight,” he snarls.

“Shut up Dorian.” 

So Arno pushes him against the closest wall, not bothered by the frame that crashes on the floor. His hand is lowering on his body and Napoleon wonders where it will go. It lingers on his back and- 

“What are you doing ?”

Arno wraps his fingers around the grip of the pistol and brings it to him.

“Making sure you won't try to shoot through me.” He puts it down where Napoleon can't reach it in this position. “I know Hell awaits us both, but I'd appreciate it if you did not send me there before you.” 

Napoleon’s eyes are taking a darker shade. 

“Don't make that face, Bonaparte. You won't need it anyway.” 

He tightens his fist in his hair and he opens his mouth to say something. Someone knocks. He closes his eyes and holds back a curse.

“Sir ?”

“What is it ?”

“Are you alright General ? I heard something crash, is everything okay ?”

“Yeah don't worry.”

“Do you want me to..”

“I told you everything’s alright ! Don't come in. I'm busy. Go back in the corridor.”

“Yes sir.”

Napoleon lets his head fall back against the wall. He can't have a damn second. 

“What is it,  _ General  _ ? Feeling tired ?”

“Don't call me that.” He comes back down on earth. His surroundings are too real, the self-hatred still curled around his guts.

“Got a problem with this,  _ General _ Bonaparte ?”

Napoleon puts his hand back in Arno’s brown mane and pulls back.

“Do you think this is funny ?”

“I don't know,  _ General _ , you tell me.”

“You never shut your goddamn mouth, do you ?”

Arno chuckles and smirks. “Make me…” He feels Napoleon’s nails scratch his skull. “... _ General _ .”

Napoleon puts his free hand on his shoulder and pushes him down, his eyes locked with Arno’s until his knees hit the floor. The pained snarled that came with the bending of his hurting leg quickly disappears. The sly grin on his face grows larger and Napoleon wants to punch him. He takes a deep breath and tries to stay calm.

“Now..” He says, tracing the outline of Arno’s lips with his thumb, “Stand.”

“Why did you make me kneel if-”

“I said  _ stand _ .”

Arno stands up, quite reluctantly by the look Napoleon can see on his face.

“Do you know who calls me General ? Soldiers. If you want to call me this, then act like one.” 

“So you want to treat me like one of your dogs ?”

Napoleon lets out a small, unamused laugh, anger seeping in him. “Sit.” 

“I am not one of your submissive soldiers and I won’t obey.” He feels that every trace of anything that was between them earlier is gone.

“Then don't call me General.”

Arno steps closer.

“Don't.” Napoleon turns away. He sees him watch him intensely from the corner of his eyes. He knows he is still hesitant. Who is he to blame him, after all, he himself doesn't quite know what to do. “Go, now.”

He turns his back to him and leaves the room, not waiting for him to be gone. He learnt on the battlefield that retracting can sometimes do wonders where attacking could destroy everything. And isn't he a military man before anything else ?

* * *

 

 

“What ?”

“You perfectly heard what I said, Dorian. Don't make me repeat.” Napoleon hates having to repeat things.

“What do you want from them ?” 

“Anything. I need to know as much as I can.”

Arno is standing by the window, hood hiding his face, but Napoleon is pretty sure he is smiling to his strong position.

“What do you have to offer in exchange ?”

The General grits his teeth. This is the part he dislikes.

“Give me your price.”

“You owe me a favour now.” His voice drips satisfaction. “A big one, at that.”

“Tell me what you want.” He fights the urge to bury his blade in his stomach.

“Once you have done what you have to do with this information, come visit me.”

“And then ?”

“Just come.”

Napoleon clenches his fists. Who does he think he is ? He forces himself to relax his hands and he breathes deeply to stay calm as the long navy coat disappears from his balcony. He wonders why he hasn't killed him yet. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am very sorry for all the delay, I had several issues: first I was very busy and then I lost the sheet on which I wrote all my historical references, so I had to remake it all.  
> If you are looking for a (very) good book with beautiful pictures and lots of references, I absolutely recommend this one: Napoléon, Images of the Napoleonic Legend (written in french AND in english.)
> 
> But once again, thank you for staying with me and sorry for being so late. You are the best.

Charlotte leaves when they reach the wide open door of Arno’s room. Napoleon slowly - _carefully_ \- enters. Arno is looking out of the French window that leads to the roof terrace. He only wears a shirt and a pair of his usual dark grey pants and he turns around when he hears him come in.

“Were these documents useful ?”

“Yes.” He pulls one of the chairs, puts his hat on the desk and sits in front of Arno. “Now that I am here, please, tell me how I can repay the favour.”  He swallows hard as something ignites deep inside him. He doesn't know if it is the disgust of his own honeyed tone or the sight of the man before him. It all feels too intimate, just like the day he came and-

He loses track of his thoughts as one of Arno’s scarred fingers slides along the side of his face. He wonders when he got so close. His throat feels dry. He takes the hand in his and observes the straight marks along the four fingers.

“You healed well.”

Arno gently presses his knuckles to Napoleon lips, so he kisses them like he would kiss the hand of a woman, his blue eyes locked in the brown ones. He lets go and straightens a little.

“How are your ribs ?”

Without a word, the Assassin loosens the string of his collar and slides his hands under the hem of his shirt. Napoleon watches intensely as he slowly pulls it over his head before carelessly dropping it at his feet. His hair falls back messily on his face, the hair tie barely holding it.

Napoleon’s gaze leaves the chocolate orbs and moves down ever so slowly as if he discovered his body for the first time. Only then he notices the discolouration of old wounds on his torso. Drifting lower, he follows the curves of the toned stomach, the healed bruise forgotten, and stops when his skin disappears under the grey waistband. His palms replace his eyes and he flattens them on the warm body. Soon, he is following the same path, sliding up this time, feeling every crevice, every bump on the skin, the vale of his adonis belt, the hills of his abs, the ridges of his ribs, the cliff of his pectorals. He ears Arno’s shallow breathing, feels his chest rise and fall quickly.

He stands up and now their extreme proximity is blatant. They're too close, it’s suffocating. So instead of taking a step back, he caresses his lower lip with his thumb for a second before softly pulling it down to open his mouth. His eyes shoot up to Arno’s, then back down to his lips. He leans closer languidly and finally presses their mouth together. Air seems to flow back in his lungs all at once and he gasps. It only makes him kiss harder. Each time they part, they crash their lips back together in a heated passion. Arno only pushes him to breathe. His lips are red, his pupils blown wide.

The Assassin wraps his hands around his neck and tries to kiss him again, but Napoleon puts his finger on his lips, stopping him. He pushes on his chest and forces him to take a few steps back. Now that he has put distance between them, he starts unbuckling his leather belts and puts them down carefully. He unties the red and white fabric belts and lets them fall on the floor. He then skilfully unbuttons his navy, oak-leaf-embroidered coat and removes it before putting it on the back of the chair he previously sat on.

He halts briefly to look Arno from head to toes. He smirks when he notices the form of his erection trapped in the thick fabric of his trousers. He doesn't say a word and undoes the buttons of his pristine white shirt without wasting any time and he discards it before palming himself through his pants. Arno's eyes flicker down.

“Undress.” His voice breaks the silence and the brown eyes shoot back up. “Come on, _Arno_. Strip for me.”

He doesn't know if it is calling him by his name or the will to get naked, but he eagerly does as he is told, to Napoleon’s utmost pleasure. His deep heartbeat fastens as he sees what’s under the grey bottom. _Nothing._ He bites his lip.

Still watching, he flops down in the chair and removes his boots quickly. When he’s done, Arno is stark naked in front of him. The light coming from the French window casts a frustrating shadow on his body.

Napoleon stands back up and closes the gap between them, brutally taking his head in his hands and pressing his mouth hard on his. He doesn't know how long he kisses him. He doesn't want it to stop. Arno has gripped his hips and he grinds against him shamelessly, panting in his mouth. The General laces his fingers in his hair and pulls. A moan escapes the taller man’s now exposed throat.

“What is it you want ?” Napoleon asks, licking and biting at the soft skin.

Another harsh moan slips from him. “You,” he says, “I want you.”

“What do you want from me ?”

Napoleon hisses as Arno presses a knee between his thighs, he feels imprisoned in his too tight piece of clothing. The Assassin frees himself of the grasp in his hair and puts his mouth on his ear.

“ _Everything_.”

Napoleon feels his cock twitch painfully. “Then take me, take it all.”

Arno’s expression seems to have darkened, a sudden lustful, hungry spark lighting in his eyes. It is his time to push Napoleon back and he corners him against the desk, the General’s hands immediately clasping on the edge of it.  Without waiting any more second, he kisses and bites down his body until he has to kneel. He winces and carefully bends his right leg, cautious not to hurt himself more. Knees on the wooden floor, he hurriedly unfastens Napoleon’s pants and tugs them down before hooking his fingers in his underwear to gently reveal the throbbing erection.

Napoleon sighs at the wonderful feeling of finally being free of his restraints. He closes his eyes and lets the cool air of the room-

He chokes on air as Arno takes him whole. His hands grip the desk harder at the wave of heat that washes over him. He curses under his breath as he feels Arno’s cheeks hollowing and the tip of his nose brushing his navel. He then slides up and licks at the head, one of his hand gently switching from his thigh to his balls, to his groin, to his navel and back to his thigh. Napoleon moans.

“Wait,” he pants, casting a look at the French window, “what if-”

“Don’t worry.” The Assassin lets go of the heavy member to speak. “I forbade everybody to come up on the roof terrace for today. Nobody will see us.”

Napoleon nods and runs his hands in Arno’s dark mane. The slick lips wrap again around him and it takes him everything he has to not fuck his mouth. He shuts his eyelids and focuses on the feels, but he finds his mind drifting to pointless things - _how did they come to this ? did he plan it all ? why is he_ \- so he keeps them open and focused on the glistening, swollen lips doing wonders on him. Arno swallows him whole again and Napoleon whimpers, fighting not to lose control over his limbs. This time when he backs away, he sees a thick string of saliva run down his chin.

Arno swallows and stands up. He winces again, Napoleon notices.

“Get on the bed _, Napoleon._ ”

His name rolling easily off Arno’s tongue sends shivers down his spine and straight to his cock. So he steps out of the clothes piled at his ankles and walks to the large bed, where he lays down.

“Sit up.” Arno clarifies as he retrieves a small vial in the drawer of the desk. He opens it and pours a little of its content on himself, coating his shaft thoroughly. He puts it on the table next to the bed and settles against the headboard.

“Come here,” he says.

Napoleon smirks and crawls on all four on him. He sits on his lap and rolls his hips a few times, relishing the groan he elicits from Arno.

“Who thought you liked men...” He removes the useless leather tie from Arno’s hair and runs his hands through it.

“Why deprive myself when I can have both ?”

“How pretentious..” He laughs, soon gasping when a finger slides in him.

“Look who’s talking.”

He wants to say something more, but Arno introduces another digit in him and he closes his eyes. How long has it been since a man last touched him ? When was the last time he felt large, rough hands roam his body ? He sighs in pleasure, enjoying the way Arno twists and curls inside him. The powerful muscles under him and the faint masculine scent coming from his body reminds him how he missed it without even knowing. He lets their short breath give the minutes their tempo for a little while before speaking.

“Come on, don't make me wait Arno.”

To his words, the Assassin removes his fingers and reaches for his member without hesitation. Napoleon’s hands clench on the shoulders where they have moved earlier when he lowers himself on his cock. He grits his teeth to the delightful burn of the stretch. Maybe he should have waited for another finger. He shrugs it off. Arno grips his waist and follows the soft rocking Napoleon has started. The General follows his eyes as they lock on the smooth swing of his hips. He sees him lick his lips before imperceptibly quickening the pace. Napoleon changes his angle and when he lowers this time, a more intense wave of pleasure goes up his spine. He lets his head fall back and clears his head as pleasure forms golden swirls on the screen of his eyelids, getting vivider and vivider with each thrust.

“Tell me..” Comes Arno’s hoarse voice after a few minutes. Napoleon straightens and looks at him, how his eyes follow him - _up and down, up and down_ , _up and down._

“How many of your soldiers did you fuck ?”

“What makes you think I already fucked a man ?” He asks with a sly expression.

“Nobody rides a dick that skilfully without any experience.”

Napoleon stays down and holds back a laugh. Is that bastard indirectly calling him a whore ? He grabs his jaw and squeezes hard.

“Are you saying I'm a slut ?”

Arno raises an eyebrow, defiant. “Are you ?”

“What do you think ?” He asks, clenching around him.

Arno curses under his breath. “I think none of them fucked you like I will.”

“What makes you say that ?”

“They were too afraid of you.”

This time, it is Napoleon who raises his eyebrows, a questioning look on his face. Arno lifts him until he slips free and turns him over. He then kneels behind him and forcefully shoves him so that he’s on his hands and knees. Napoleon is about to protest, but the man behind him takes his wrists and pulls his arms behind his back. He falls and lands face first on the wrinkled sheets. Arno keeps his wrists in one hand and uses the other to guide himself back in, before latching it on his hip.

He leans on him. “Not a single one of your soldiers would have dared taking you like this,” he whispers in his ear. “Too afraid of hurting you.” He starts thrusting in him in a slow but powerful way and Napoleon moans.

He squirms and tries to free his wrists, in vain. It makes Arno move faster and Napoleon whimpers against the mattress. His neck and shoulders start to hurt but he couldn’t care less. All he feels is the blissful way Arno’s member moves inside him, how it is too much yet too little at the same time. He closes his eyes and tries to remember the last time he bedded one of his soldiers. The only thing he remembers through the blur of his fading memories and the veil of pleasure are the silent, heated kisses, the feeling of calloused hands, so _so_ far from Josephine’s tender hold, sweet embraces and soft fingers.

He moans at the new pace Arno is setting up, forgetting about whoever he fucked before. What matters is now: how he couldn’t be more grateful for Arno’s thumbs mercilessly digging in his back, for his earth-shattering thrusts despite the evident pain radiating from his hurt leg.  His own cock is straining, he yearns for friction. He opens his lips to speak, but the only thing he utters is a pleasured cry.

Arno slows down. “It seems your smart mouth is finally falling short of words.”

“Shut up.” Napoleon forces out through his panting. “Fuck me harder.”

“It would be rude for me to keep you from walking straight tomorrow, don’t you think ? After all, you’re a military man, so…”

“I’ll gut you and feed you to the revolutionaries.”

“Come on, _Napoleon_ …” Arno whispers as he buries himself deep in him. “You know I’ll make you come untouched.”

The General hisses blissfully despite the will to strangle Arno and his insolent -dare he say _cheeky_ ?- tone. He wants more, he _needs_ more, so he pushes his hips back to encourage him to continue, which he does, and lets his eyes close once more. Every stroke sends shivers up his spine and his skin is soon covered in goosebump. As the grip on his wrists loosens -he is indeed a bit careless, he notes- Napoleon slides his hands up over his head and wraps his fingers around the sheet for support, his back naturally arching. His loins pleasantly burn, only adding up to the general bliss he’s in.

He relishes the way the Assassin’s hands slide on him, how they seem to caress and scratch at the same time, the way his skin radiates warmth when his body is close or prickles with cold when he moves away. Sweat is starting to stick his hair to his face and he can’t help but think about Josephine again, about her body, about how he made love to her. He likes women, of course he does, he loves them even, but none had ever made him feel good like men did, like _Arno_ did.

It almost hurts it to admit it, but Arno was right: nobody ever dared to truly, entirely dominate him the way he does. He doesn’t care about hierarchy, he’s not afraid of hurting him, he knows there will be no retaliation of any form, and Napoleon loves it. He loves struggling to have power over him. He loves the freedom he has to say or do to Arno whatever he desires, far from courting conventions.

There is no other man he would allow to see him like Arno does, he thinks. No other man he would put his trust in.

Scarred fingers tense around his hips. No other man he would love like he loves Arno.

 

* * *

 

 

 

Napoleon is standing in front of the fireplace, hands clasped behind his back. Lost in his thoughts, he doesn’t feel the fire warming his bones: the emptiness of his life has engulfed his soul in a cold fog. The crackling of the flames seems to echo in the room despite this oppressive feeling of being in a confined space. It all feels too big now Josephine is gone.

He can’t complain, he tells himself. Dressed in his usual colonel of the Imperial Guard’s Grenadier à Pied costume, a fine gold laurel crown on the head and his First Consul sword on his side, he used to feel like the most powerful man on Earth. He looks at the waving flames without really seeing them. Now he feels empty as the void in his heart grows deeper and deeper. He swallows hard and sighs. There is nothing he can do now.

Muffled steps make the wooden floor creak. Napoleon slightly turns his head.

“Ah, you came back.” He declares softly, as if not to disturb the silence too much.

Arno stands next to him. “I heard you divorced.”

Napoleon holds in a bitter laugh. “The whole of France wanted to divorce.”

“I don’t think I need to hear a second time what you said to your daughter.”

“I need a male heir.” He wearily sighs.

“Another emperor ?”

“I made these men great,” he says, turning towards Arno, “I can’t let anarchy return after me. I will have suffered, but my son and France will profit from it.”

“You didn’t have to sacrifice so much for France, _Napoleon_.”

“Who would have wanted to bear such a crown ? It is as much of a burden as it is a blessing. If I hadn’t, nobody would have.”

Arno doesn’t answer. Instead, he directs his attention to the fire. The emperor observes him for a few moments before speaking.

“Where were you ?”

“When ?” Arno looks at him with a puzzled expression on his face.

Napoleon lowers his eyes on the flames. “All those years.” He counts them again. Ten.

“I had a lot of things to tend to.”

“I hoped to see you at my coronation.” He almost whispers, immediately regretting his choice of words.

“Hoped ?” Arno grins. “But I was there. I didn’t stay long in Paris, a day, two at most, but I was there.”

A small smile lifts the corners of the emperor’s lips. “You didn’t come.”

“I didn't have much time.”

A comfortable silence settles between them. Having the other next to him is soothing, somehow. Maybe the habit -in one sense or the other.

“It has been quite some time.” He murmurs. He knows his message is clear behind the neutral tone and dull words. _I missed you_.

“Yeah.” Arno steps closer and the void within Napoleon disappears as he presses their lips together. “But I am here, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The colonel of the Imperial Guard’s Grenadier à Pied costume was a blue jacket with a white lining and scarlet cuffs, with pants cut french style, white stockings and shoes with buckles.  
> His First Consul sword was made by the best gunsmith, goldsmith and jeweller, in gold and steel adorned with the Crown Treasury’s largest stones.  
> You can see both (if you wish !) on the painting named "Napoléon Ier, empereur des Français" by Robert Lefèvre (1806)  
> Napoleon didn't usually wear a laurel crown but I thought it would be a nice imperial touch to his very simple style (that, by the way, distinguished him from all the other men back then !)
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed it as much as I enjoyed writing it !


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